The One With The Eighties
by Helga Von Nutwimple
Summary: Janice's questions about the group's origins reveal a surprising history between Phoebe and Chandler.
1. The Village People

This takes place directly after 306, The One With The Flashback, in which Janice asks the Friends to solve a "dirty math problem" -- which of the six of them has slept with the six of them.  
  
Edited slightly after a discussion with someone who was actually Chandler's and Phoebe's age then. Boyfriends! So useful.  
  
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"And then I missed the exit, a-and they asked what I was thinking about... and I told them, um, Barry," Rachel finished.  
  
"Interesting," Chandler coughed, hiding a spreading grin behind his hand. It was quickly extinguished by Ross elbowing him painfully in the ribs.  
  
"Soooo," Janice said slowly, pointing her finger from pair to pair, "Friends in high school... brother and sister... roommates in college... ad in the paper... I'm *almost* caught up, I think."  
  
"I sublet my grandmother's apartment when she moved to Florida, and that's when I met Kip, who lived across the hall. We started dating..." Monica supplied.  
  
Ross took over. "Yeah, and Kip's roommate bailed a few months later. He asked me if I knew anyone looking for a place, and Chandler was..."  
  
"So Chandler moved in with Kip, and I was having problems making rent by myself, so Phoebe moved in."  
  
Janice nodded. "Okay, so, how'd you meet Phoebe?"  
  
"You know, I don't... actually... remember," Monica said in confusion. "Pheebs, help me out here."  
  
"I don't remember either," Phoebe said quickly. "Anyone need more coffee?"  
  
Monica ignored her. "Oh, man... this is gonna drive me nuts! I wouldn't have placed an ad, I... but I know I didn't know her, I do remember that... someone... someone..."  
  
Monica snapped her fingers in victory. "Chandler recommended her to me!"  
  
"Oh, really?" Janice said. "Chandler, how'd you know Phoebe?"  
  
Chandler and Phoebe shared an uneasy look. "Oh, you know, from around," Chandler said casually.  
  
"Whoa-whoa-whoa," Joey interrupted. "*You* knew Pheebs before anyone else? How come we never heard this story?"  
  
"You guys never mentioned this, ever!" Rachel accused. "I mean, you even... I can remember specifically... you acted like you barely knew each other!" A suspicious look grew in her eyes. "Oh my god, did you guys used to date?"  
  
"How'd you meet?" Ross asked curiously.  
  
"At a restaurant," Chandler replied.  
  
"At my massage clinic," Phoebe said at the exact same time.  
  
The other five stared at them suspiciously.  
  
"Fine. Fine! We've known each other since high school," Phoebe said. "Are you happy now?"  
  
"Whoa," Monica breathed.  
  
"Whoa-whoa, not possible," Ross announced smugly. "Chandler went to an all-boys high school, and you, you said you'd been living on the streets since you were fourteen!"  
  
"You don't know *everything*, Dr. Geller," Phoebe muttered.  
  
"Look, guys, you gotta tell us the story," Joey begged.  
  
"Let me phrase it this way," Janice said, squeezing Chandler's knee. "I know every part, and every word, to 'Les Miserables'. You guys start telling the story, or the concert begins in thirty seconds."  
  
"Janice..." Chandler begged.  
  
"I'm the poor convict Jean Valjean," Janice threatened. "I'm so hungry, I just gotta sing high notes..."  
  
"You want to start?" Chandler turned to Phoebe in despair.  
  
"Nah," Phoebe replied, sitting back with a resigned sigh. "You go."  
  
***  
  
1985  
  
Nora Bing leaned against the doorframe and stared at her teenaged son, shaking her head.  
  
"Darling, I don't know what disturbs me more... that you're wearing eyeliner, or that it used to belong to your father."  
  
Chandler looked up from tying his boots with a glare. "You send me off to be a weatherboy in a gay burlesque show for two months, but this, *this* bothers you."  
  
"Well, couldn't you have chosen a different Village Person? Why not the cowboy, o-or the construction worker? Who exactly do you think is going to attack you, here with the pointy things?"  
  
She reached out and spun several studded leather bracelets that were attached around Chandler's wrist, then let her fingers brush through his newly-dyed black hair.  
  
"I just can't decide if you're supposed to be Elvis or Priscilla, darling, and I don't think it's a good look for you. Your hair was such a lovely color."  
  
Chandler grabbed his backpack, glared one more time for good measure, and stabbed one black-polished fingernail towards a poster of Robert Smith.  
  
"Oh, darling, is *that* who you're supposed to be? She's pretty."  
  
She was cut off by the sound of the door slamming and sighed.  
  
***  
  
Chandler slumped down on a bench outside the rec hall, pulling a box of Sobranies out of his backpack and lighting one.   
  
Ah, August. The month where his mother ran out of places to ship him off to. The month of 'Teens in Trouble' camp... because there just wasn't a problem that couldn't be fixed by the friggin' ropes course.  
  
And talking, of course. Lots and lots of talking. Endless hours of group sessions, endless hours of whining, endless hours of impossibly perky counselors who wanted you to share, share, share your way to inner light and deeper meaning, as expressed in a never-ending stock of stupid cliches.  
  
Compared to this, dodging the drunken advances of his father's other backup dancers had been Disneyland on Ecstasy.  
  
"Hey, Goth Boy," a voice said behind him. "Can I bum one?"  
  
"Whatever," he muttered, shoving the box towards the redhead who sat down next to him.  
  
"Oh, I know you," she said, lighting one and inhaling deeply. "Gay dad, romance-novel-writing mom!"  
  
Chandler raised an angry eyebrow. "And you must be no dad, dead mom."  
  
The girl let out a fake shudder. "Ooooh, it speaks. And it's so *mean*!"  
  
She poked his notebook with a finger. "Lemme guess. Filled with deep, meaningful poetry about how no one understands your tortured soul."   
  
"Oh, you know me *that* well."  
  
"Well, you're kinda screaming it, what with the entire outfit from the 'no one understands my tortured soul' collection."  
  
Chandler snorted. "Uh-huh. And you're *so* original."  
  
"I just might be."  
  
"Okay, sure. Let's see. Scanning database... scanning... why, you're a vegetarian, Wiccan, Kate Bush fan. The red hair is a dye job 'cause you desperately wish you were Irish. You dress up as a fairy at every chance you get, you go through a pot of glitter a month, and in that purple backpack is..." he paused, smirking, for effect, "a battered copy of 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull'... an even more battered copy of 'Illusions'... and at least one rose quartz."  
  
The girl's face fell. "Screw you."  
  
"No-no, screw you," Chandler spat back.  
  
She stubbed out the cigarette angrily. "I think our break's over, so you'd... you'd better finish up your poseur, black, Russian cigarette, which, by the way, I should tell you, you are not actually inhaling."  
  
"I am *too*."  
  
"You are *not*. C'mon, suck it all the way in, this should be funny."  
  
She crossed her arms and watched him. Chandler took another drag. What was wrong with the way he smoked?  
  
The girl hit him lightly across the solar plexus, and Chandler inhaled sharply from surprise. Immediately, he began coughing, and his head swam.  
  
"Oh, that *was* fun. See you inside, Vampire Boy."  
  
--------------------------------  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Rhiannon

Bonus points for spotting vague foreshadowing of something else never discussed in the series. I'll even give you a hint -- it's something Chandler says when he's talking about his guitar. Edited slightly to explain who "Mario" is.  
  
Also, since so many people can't visualize Chandler as a goth, I made a little image. It's at:  
  
http://helgavonnutwimple.tripod.com/chandlerphoebe.html  
  
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Chandler walked back into "Hudson Hutch". All the cabins where they had group meetings had stupid names - like calling them "connection centers" wasn't stupid enough - of New York natural features.  
  
Like anything in the Hudson was "natural" anymore, but whatever.  
  
See, they should have named them after New York *City* natural features. He might have actually been able to "share and care" in a place called "Giant Roach Motel" or "Diseased Rat Trap".  
  
But then, this place didn't exactly cater to the sarcastic. Well, except for providing endless things to sarcastically comment *about*.  
  
His stomach sank as he noticed that their "Growth Guide" Sherri had already paired everyone off, and only the redheaded girl from outside sat alone. Sherri motioned for Chandler to sit with the girl, and he grudgingly crossed and sat down cross-legged.  
  
"All right, everyone!" Sherri cried. "I think we did some excellent work before the break, and now, as you know, I've paired you off. I want us to work on some sharing and self-esteem exercises. So girls, you start. Ask your partner to tell you one thing about himself, and then let's give him some positive feedback! After that, fellows, it's your turn! And we'll just go back and forth. Got it? Begin!"  
  
"Why are you dressed up like Siouxsie Sioux?" the redhead asked.  
  
"You want the real answer, or the flippant, sarcastic one?" Chandler replied.  
  
"Oooh, the flippant, sarcastic one. I'd hate to 'share and care'."  
  
"Because black is so slimming. Now gimme my positive feedback."  
  
"I bet you'd be cute if you weren't dressed like Siouxie Sioux."  
  
"So. What's your name?"  
  
"Oooh, *probing* question."  
  
"Ahh, I think I know your brother, 'Lame-Ass Comment'."  
  
"It's Phoebe. Phoebe Buffay. And your positive feedback?"  
  
"It suits you much better than 'Probing Question'. You go."  
  
"Fine, what's *your* name?"  
  
"Chandler Muriel Bing."  
  
"I can't give positive feedback about that. It's impossible."  
  
"Oh, but try."  
  
She swallowed, thinking. "It's... very nice... that you know what your middle name is."  
  
He blinked. "You *don't*?"  
  
"Nope. Now give me my positive feedback."  
  
Chandler looked confused.  
  
"You asked a question, I answered."  
  
"Having no middle name's gotta be better than 'Muriel'. You go."  
  
"Okay. If you could make up a middle name for me, what would it be?"  
  
He surprised himself by answering before thinking. "Rhiannon."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Y'know," he said awkwardly, "the song, 'Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night...' and it doesn't sound too bad. 'Phoebe Rhiannon Buffay'."  
  
"Has *Goth Boy* just revealed himself to be a closet Fleetwood Mac fan? Whatever will the other undead legions think?"  
  
"Please," he drawled, fighting his blush back down and striving for coolness, "I'm sure the other undead legions have mothers who listen to it all the time. Besides, *I'm* not the one who broke into Stevie Nicks' house and stole all her clothes."  
  
"Oooh, good save," Phoebe said, eyes flashing. "You came dangerously close to acting like a real human being there."  
  
"You call that positive feedback?" he snapped, crossing his arms.  
  
"Guys, guys," Sherri beamed, patting them both. "Come on, now. I sense a little bit of hostility here, and that's not what we want at all, is it? Remember, it's 'sharing and caring', not 'staring and glaring'! I'll give you guys some questions, okey-dokey? Why don't you guys ask each other about your *hobbies*. Wouldn't *that* be interesting?"  
  
Chandler and Phoebe sat flaring their nostrils at each other under Sherri's watchful gaze. Finally, Chandler put on his fakest voice.  
  
"Gee, Phoebe. What *are* your hobbies?"  
  
"Well golly, Chandler, I play guitar," she said in an equally perky tone.  
  
"Well that's intriguing," Chandler chirped. "Gosh-darnit if I don't, too."  
  
"See?" Sherri sang out. "You guys have something in common. Isn't that exciting! Maybe you guys could play together some time!"  
  
"Well, shucks. I didn't bring my guitar," Phoebe smirked.  
  
"I didn't eith..." Chandler began.  
  
Sherri looked at him sternly, perky hands on perky hips. "Now Chandler, I saw you with your guitar case when you got off the bus. And Phoebe, you can borrow mine. I think you two should perform a song for us at Campfire Night on Thursday. A duet. Wouldn't *that* be lovely? How about 'Kumbayah'? Oooh, or 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone'?"  
  
"I mostly do my own stuff," Phoebe said, looking at Chandler nervously.  
  
"Yeah, and I, I play a classical, it's not really..."  
  
"I'll let you guys out of 'Sharing and Caring' *and* Arts and Crafts all week to practice," Sherri offered.  
  
Chandler and Phoebe shared a look.  
  
"Yeah, okay," Phoebe said.  
  
"Woo-hoo, Kumbayah," Chandler added.  
  
***  
  
Phoebe stepped over a log, borrowed guitar case banging against her knee. She finally spotted Chandler, sitting cross-legged in the clearing, filing his nails.  
  
"Wow," she drawled, leaning against a tree. "You remind me of a painting I saw once. 'Flamer By Stream'. What's with the manicure?"  
  
Chandler looked up in annoyance, finishing his right index fingernail and moving on to the middle one. "I thought you played guitar."  
  
"Yes, hello, with a pick. Ever heard of one?"  
  
"You can't play classical with a *pick*. You need all your fingers. Well, except one pinky. Where the hell did you learn to play?"  
  
"I taught myself. With help from Brian."  
  
"Brian...?"  
  
"Brian, the guy who lives in Central Park and thinks he's an antelope. Don't scoff, he was quite the virtuoso before, you know, the seven *million* hits of acid."  
  
Chandler decided not to antagonize her further. He slid his nail file back into its pouch. "So. What do you want to play?"  
  
"What do you know?"  
  
Chandler opened his guitar case and pulled out his guitar lovingly. "I don't suppose they'd be interested in any selections from Andres Segovia."  
  
"Who?"  
  
Chandler began to play, fingers flying over the strings, impossibly fast notes rippling out. Phoebe's jaw dropped in astonishment.  
  
"You're... you're really good," she said grudgingly.  
  
"Thanks," he grinned. "I screwed up some, though. My instructor Mario would kill me if he knew I'd been wearing nail polish."  
  
"I noticed you took it off. Don't suppose 'Mario' has any rules about eyeliner?" She paused. "No? Too bad."  
  
He just glared, and Phoebe dropped to the ground next to him, pulling out the loaner guitar. "So. 'Kumbayah', or 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone'?"  
  
"Kumbayah, I guess. We can practice for five minutes, and I can devote the rest of the week to apologizing to my guitar."  
  
"Okay," Phoebe said, handing him her extra pick. "Teach me."  
  
He blinked. "You don't know Kumbayah? I don't know whether to be horrified or totally jealous."  
  
"Like I said, I do my own stuff."  
  
"It's a three-chorder, just d's, a's, and e's. You'll get it in two minutes. First chord is an A, okay, let's go..."   
  
Phoebe stared intently at his hand. "Ohhhh, 'Bear Claw'."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Oh, I don't use the letter chord names."  
  
"You... you don't."  
  
"Nope. I do it by the way my hand looks playing them. See?" She moved her fingers over the frets. "Bear Claw... Turkey Leg... Old Lady... Dragon... Iceberg..."  
  
Chandler bit his lip to keep from mocking. "Ooookay. So the song is Bear Claw, Old Lady, Bear Claw. Dragon. Bear Claw, Old Lady, Bear Claw. Old Lady, Bear Claw, Dragon, Bear Claw."  
  
"Ohhh, that *is* easy," Phoebe smiled.  
  
"Yeah," he smiled. "So let's... uh... take it from the Bear Claw."  
  
***  
  
"So we played Kumbayah together at the thing on Thursday, and the rest, as they say, is history," Phoebe finished.  
  
"Yup, that's the end," Chandler added, sipping his coffee.  
  
"How can that be the end?" Janice said.  
  
"Yeah!" Rachel added. "I mean, we've left you a guitar-playing goth boy, and then a few years later, you show up in a sweatervest? How come you don't play guitar anymore?"  
  
"You know how it is," Chandler said uneasily. "Every teenage boy plays guitar. Ross and I didn't keep going with the band, I'm all rusty and stuff now."  
  
"But Pheebs said you were really good," Joey said.  
  
"You didn't play classical with me," Ross added. "I didn't even know you knew how. We could have added a whole dimension to 'the sound'!"  
  
"Ah yes, 'the sound'," Monica moaned. "Ross and his dorky keyboards..."  
  
Chandler and Phoebe shot each other a look of relief as everyone moved on to torturing Ross.  
  
Joey leaned over to Phoebe and whispered in her ear. "You're gonna tell me the rest of this story later, right?"  
  
"There is no more story," she hissed back.  
  
"Yeah, right."  
  
"Look, I'll come over later, okay? If Chandler's okay with it, then maybe. But not in front of everyone."  
  
"Oh my god," Joey whispered excitingly. "This sounds like a *good* story!"  
  
"No," Phoebe whispered back sadly. "No, it definitely isn't."  
  
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To be continued... 


	3. Boys Don't Cry

Warning: This chapter is where the "angst" portion of the fic comes in, with Phoebe and Chandler talking about the *very*, *very* dark parts of their adolescence. If you're not comfortable with that sort of thing, you probably don't want to read this one. I can't warn you too much more without giving the story away.  
  
Chandler's mention of his parent's divorce taking two years is to cover a series goof, where Chandler is both nine *and* eleven when his parents got divorced. So he's nine when they decide to get one, and eleven when it's final.  
  
Fixed the Dan/Don mixup. What a horrible, scary, Freudian slip.  
  
--------------------------  
  
1985  
  
"Hey," Chandler said, looking up from his guitar in surprise. "I didn't think you'd be here. We pretty much got 'Kumbayah' down yesterday."  
  
"Well... I... I heard you playing, and I..."  
  
"Oh my god, are you crying?"  
  
She nodded. He patted the ground beside him awkwardly. "Hey, hey. Sit down. What happened?"  
  
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "You'll make fun of me."  
  
"I'm not a *total* asshole, I swear. Sit down."  
  
Phoebe did, spreading her skirt out underneath her. "I... I just talked to my foster dad on the phone."  
  
"Foster dad? I thought you lived in a box or something."  
  
"I *did* live in a box, okay? Then I got arrested for... stuff... and they put me in foster care. What the hell did you think -- I sublet my box and sent myself to camp?"  
  
"Your foster dad sent you to camp?"  
  
"Yeah, right," she sniffed. "No, the school did. It's like a scholarship, for sucking the most. Believe me, my foster dad wants me at home. And I mean that in every sense of the word."  
  
"Oh," Chandler said quietly.  
  
"Yeah, it's me, and these four other girls my age. The people at the agency think he's *such* a sweetheart for agreeing to take teenagers."  
  
She wiped away more tears angrily. "I should have known it was too good to be friggin' true. Nobody fosters older kids unless they need the money or a free servant."  
  
"He just seemed so nice," she continued. "And the place was so nice... I mean, you don't even want to know about some of the places I've been. This was this beautiful house, in this beautiful neighborhood... I had my own room, my own huge room. And he didn't hand me a list of seven million duties, he didn't take the support check and blow it on booze... he wanted to take me shopping, and I thought, 'Oh god, this is so great'. He seemed so *interested* in me. And, I mean, he was. So he takes me to the mall, and I'm all excited, and he takes me to Victoria's Secret, you know, and I'm like, wow, I can't believe he's not embarrassed to be in here, he's so cool."  
  
"I was so friggin' stupid," she moaned.  
  
"What did he do?" Chandler asked.  
  
"Well first off, he picks out all this slutty stuff. Which kinda weirds me out, but I'm naive, I think he just doesn't know what he's doing, trying to help. So I go try it on, I'm half-naked, and he just opens the changing room door and comes right on inside, just sits down on the little stool like everything's normal, watches me. And I tell him I'm not comfortable with that, and he acts like *I'm* weird, but he's pretty cool about it. Doesn't mention it the rest of the trip, buys me tons of crap. I decide maybe some people do that."  
  
"And then what?"  
  
"And then it just got worse, and worse. First he'd come in, I'd be watching TV or something, and he'd want to have a heart to heart talk with me. Hand on my knee, you know. Hugs that lasted too long, with hands that moved a little too much. Playful butt-pats. It was never stuff where I could jump up and scream, you know? And he was *so* nice to me. I didn't want to hurt his feelings... and the other girls seemed cool with it, I didn't want to be the weird one. I've never really had a dad, I didn't know what other families did. My stepdad didn't do any of that stuff, but he wasn't a touchy-feely guy anyway."  
  
"He always kissed the other girls goodbye on the lips, and he started doing it to me. It was weird, but it just got a little bit weirder every day, a little longer..."  
  
"God, that must have creeped you out."  
  
"Oh totally. And then one day, I'm doing math homework, and my pencil breaks. So I go up to Heather's room, to see if she has one. I knock, but the music's really loud, so I think she can't hear me, I open the door. And there's Heather and Dan, y'know."  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"Shut the door! And freaked, you know. The thing was, it wasn't like he was raping Heather or anything, she was making, you know, noises. So I run over to Becca's room, ask her if she knows about the two of them."  
  
Phoebe sighed. "And she just laughed. This horrible, bitter, laugh. And says, 'You mean he hasn't come for you yet? This must be a record.' She says Heather likes it, she's got this stupid crush on Dan, thinks he loves her... but that she and Amanda just put up with it."  
  
"Oh my *god*."  
  
"Yeah. And she says if I want to stick around, I'd better start giving it up, too. Says it's worth it, says Dan puts money in savings accounts for them, buys them cars, and pays their college tuitions afterwards. Apparently lots of girls have lived there, getting the Dan Scholarship."  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"Well, that night, Dan comes into my room. Says he's glad I saw them, glad I know. Starts rubbing my leg under the blanket, leans over and kisses me. I told him I had my period, and he... he patted my leg and said he'd see me later. Just like that. Still so nice, in this totally freaky sick way. Says I'm old enough to have a car, and did I like convertibles? And then he *winked* at me, Chandler, he friggin' *winked* at me."  
  
"I didn't know what to do," Phoebe continued, crossing her arms over her legs. "I went to school the next day, and I overheard some girls in my English class talking about this kid who'd been caught being stoned in class. They'd given him the choice of either being expelled, or being sent here for the summer."  
  
"There was like, a month of school left at this point. And I'm thinking, if I can just make it a month, I can get away from him for a whole summer, get a plan, make a decision. So I took a bunch of the money he'd put in an account for me, and I found one of the stoner kids, one that dealt, and bought an ounce of pot off of him."  
  
"An *ounce*?"  
  
"I needed a lot. I stashed it in my locker, I put it in my shoe, I smoked some of it, I rubbed some of it on me, I chewed some of it, I put it in my hair. I made sure I *reeked* of it. And then, at lunch, I smoked, oh my god, so much. I couldn't feel my feet, my pupils were huge. And I went to English class, and just started freaking out. Threw my books down, started cursing, called the teacher a whore. So of course they found it all."  
  
She smiled bitterly. "And the bonus was, Dan was so pissed off at me, he didn't want to touch me. And then I got to leave for camp."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Thing is, though, he's not mad at me anymore. I just talked to him, and he's all sleazy horny nice again. Asked me if I'd learned anything naughty at naughty girl camp. It was so friggin' gross."  
  
"Do you have a... foster mom?"  
  
"She travels all the time, she's home like two days a month."  
  
"Couldn't you tell her?"  
  
"One of the other girls... Amanda... said she did tell her, like a year ago. And the woman totally didn't believe her, said she was causing trouble, threatened to kick her out."  
  
"What a bitch."  
  
"Yeah. But I'm not going back there," Phoebe said defiantly.  
  
"You're not?"  
  
"Nope. I told my foster dad today that camp lets out a week after it really does. When he goes to pick me up from the bus, I'll be long friggin' gone."  
  
"What are you going to do?"  
  
"Go back to the city. I've got friends. I can get a new box."  
  
"Oh my god, Phoebe... you can't do that. It's not safe."  
  
"Look. I can live in a box, and maybe something bad will happen to me. Or I can go back to that house, where something bad will *definitely* happen to me. I'm just playing the odds, okay?"  
  
She looked at him angrily. "You wouldn't understand anyway."  
  
"Actually, Phoebe," he sighed, "I might. More than you'd think."  
  
"Oh, please. Your parents are rich."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, they are. So maybe I don't know anything about living in a box, okay, but I know something about... the other stuff."  
  
Phoebe's eyes widened. "Oh my god... your gay dad?"  
  
"No, no, hell no!" Chandler nearly shrieked. "Dad would never, Dad's not like that, not at all. This guy..."  
  
"Guy... Chandler, are you gay, too?"  
  
"No. Maybe. No. I don't know. I don't know anymore."  
  
"Do you... want to talk about it?"  
  
"I... I've never told anyone before. It's not like yours, it's my fault."  
  
"How is it your fault?"  
  
"Okay, I... alright, my dad... he's in this show. 'Viva Los Gaygas'. It's him, dressed as a woman... 'Helena Handbasket', that's his stage name..."  
  
"Cute."  
  
"Yeah. Anyway, my parents told me they were getting divorced on Thanksgiving, when I was about nine. But there was so much money, so much fighting over my mom's royalties, so much custody crap... it took them like, two years to actually, finally, get divorced. And neither of them wanted to move out of the house, because there's some stupid occupation thing, "abandonment", that affects how everything's divided up... so I had to live with them for two years while they friggin' hated each other's guts."  
  
"They'd talk *through* me, y'know? And not nicely, either. It'd be like, 'Chandler, will you tell the flaming mincer that he has a phone call?', o-or 'Chandler, please inform the evil bitch that dinner is on the table.'"  
  
"It was like a war. Who could hurt each other the most. They'd both bring guys to the house, mess around with them in front of each other, to hurt each other. Never mind how it might look to a ten-year-old. I actually walked in on *both* of them with the same guy once."  
  
"And the custody crap. My god. Neither of them wanted me -- they just didn't want the other one to have me. Because I had to pick, see. That was what they decided. And both of them wanted me to pick them instead of the other one. Sort of the ultimate screw-you, our kid likes me best. I didn't want to pick either of them."  
  
"My dad's manager, Philip... who, weirdly enough, was supposedly straight, had a wife and everything... was at the house all the time. He was setting up the Vegas thing for dad, dealing with all the crap from my dad's, y'know, fairly major act change."  
  
"He was always really nice to me. *Really* paid attention to me, which no one else did. I worshipped the guy. I guess you could say I had a crush on him. I mean, if I'd been able to pick Philip as the person to have custody of me, I would have. I'd go to his house for visits, play with his kids, go camping with them. They were like the family I wanted so bad. So normal, you know. So happy."  
  
"Then Dad moved to Vegas, and I didn't see Philip or his kids anymore. It was just me and my mom and her endless parade of boy toys. When it was time to visit my dad, I was so excited... not so much to see my Dad, but to see Philip, you know?"  
  
"And I get down there, and my dad's started drinking, my god, so much. The show's not as popular as he wanted, he's freaking out because he's getting older, he's had this huge fight with his boyfriend that he's all depressed about... he barely noticed me. But Philip did. And Philip said I could stay with him at his apartment in Vegas, he had an extra room. God, I was happy."  
  
"Philip was so nice to me. Took me out, took me to shows, took me to the arcade, gave me lots of attention and affection, which god, I needed so bad. He was way more affectionate than he'd been in New York, but I just ate it up for those two months I was out there."  
  
"Then, last year... Mom had to do a book tour on Thanksgiving, so I went down to spend the holiday with my dad. Typical dad holiday, totally dysfunctional, him and all his backup dancers getting plastered. We each had our own turkey microwave dinner, just like the Pilgrims. They were all so much older than me, talking about stuff I didn't care about, and there was so much alcohol. I thought hell, I've never been drunk before, let's see what it's like. No one stopped me, they all thought it was funny. I actually passed out at one point, passed out on the floor. I woke up to the smell of burning hair... I'd dropped my cigarette."  
  
"I puked on some guy named Manuel, and lurched over to Philip's apartment. Let myself in with my key, didn't expect him to be there. Found him on the couch crying. Said his wife had kicked him out of the house. So I hugged him, I mean, I loved the guy. And he started kissing me. It felt... it felt good."  
  
"I was so drunk, so dizzy, and it all felt good. He kept saying all these nice things, saying how wonderful I was, saying how much he cared about me..."  
  
"And then I woke up the next day, in his bed, so sick and confused, and I threw up Thanksgiving food all over his bathroom. Turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce... I can't eat any of it anymore. I mean, it was bad enough that my parents told me they were getting divorced that day, but then... ugh. I *hate* Thanksgiving."  
  
"Oh my god, I..." she trailed off, biting her lip. "Could I hug you? I kinda need one."  
  
Chandler leaned against the log and opened one arm. Phoebe scooted into it and leaned her head on his chest, draping an arm around him.  
  
"It's kinda why I dress this way, or part of it," Chandler sighed. "This summer, when I went back... I didn't want to go, I didn't know what to do. I'd had six months to think about it, six months to freak out, six months to wonder about myself, was I like my dad, what did it mean. And when I got there, everyone just expected me to stay with Philip. I'd been doing it for years. And he, he acted like we had a thing, was all hurt when I didn't want one, said I'd led him on, said I was breaking his heart, said he loved me."  
  
"The whole cast was out one night, and Philip saw a bunch of goths... started making fun of them, saying how gross they looked. So I... I went into Dad's dressing room, borrowed a bunch of his makeup. The more I did, the less Philip came on to me... so I just started doing more, and more, and more. I bought armbands, I painted my nails... bought a Robert Smith tape and copied everything."  
  
Chandler picked at his black jeans bitterly. "I wasn't his little yuppie treat anymore."  
  
"But you're still wearing it," Phoebe pointed out.  
  
"I know. It feels like... it feels like *armor*. Like nothing can touch me when I'm in here. I'm safe, y'know?"  
  
"Chandler, why don't you tell your parents?"  
  
"Like they'd care. My parents barely notice I exist. They're like my travel agents. Boarding school, camp... they just shove me wherever I won't be in the way. Neither of them wanted kids, even when they were married... and they definitely don't want the burden of me now that they're single. I see my mom on stopovers... and the most I see of my dad is his ass in a sequined dress while he belts out 'Raining Men' and I wriggle in my raincoat shorts. Offstage, he's pretty much glued to the bottle. And Philip's his manager, my dad can't afford to piss him off."  
  
"So do you? Think you're really gay?"  
  
"I don't know. I mean, I look back on it, and it's not exactly exciting. It's more like that feeling when you need to puke and can't. But at the time... I... I mean, I don't know if the pukey feeling is because he's a man, or because he's Philip."  
  
Chandler looked down at his shoes. "Anyway, it's not like I've ever even kissed a girl, so, you know. No comparison."  
  
"Seriously? Never?"  
  
"Well, between the all-boys high school and the summers surrounded by drag queens, I haven't gotten much of a chance."  
  
Phoebe leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. After a moment, Chandler responded. They sank down against the log, kisses growing more urgent, kicking aside Chandler's guitar case.  
  
Phoebe came up for breath. "Unless that's a banana in your pocket, you're at least bi."  
  
"Yeah, I'm... I'm thinking I'm probably straight," Chandler panted. "Did you just kiss me to test that theory?"  
  
"Well, yeah. And I also wanted to."  
  
"I kinda wanted to kiss you too."  
  
Phoebe ran her thumb gently under Chandler's eye. "Your mascara is running."  
  
He lifted up his own hand to wipe it away, noticing his watch as he did. "Oh my god. We're so, so late."  
  
Phoebe stood up, brushing the leaves from the bottom of her skirt. "So... um... you want to come here tomorrow and... practice?"  
  
"Yeah," he smiled. "That sounds like fun."  
  
***  
  
Chandler ran through the woods, a huge smile on his face. Two weeks had passed in a blur of hormones. Their performance of "Kumbayah" had gone so well that they'd played "Where Have All The Flowers Gone" the next week. This Thursday, for Parent's Day, it was "Blowin' in the Wind", but he hadn't brought his guitar today; they'd worked out the arrangement Friday night, and had very different ideas than Sherri the Growth Guide on how they wanted to spend their rehearsal time.  
  
The smile faded from his face as he entered the clearing and saw Phoebe huddled up, knees to chest and her face in her arms.  
  
"Did your foster dad call again?"  
  
"He's coming to Parents Day. And he bought me a Cabriolet convertible, which I guess is supposed to be kind of a down payment on my *ass*."  
  
Chandler dropped down beside her and put his arm around her. "He wouldn't try anything in front of all these people, would he?"  
  
"Oh please. Look around you. *We've* been making out in the woods for two weeks. It's what woods are *for*."  
  
"So I won't leave you alone with him. Ever."  
  
"How are you going to manage that? We're in different classes half the day."  
  
"Ipecac."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Syrup of Ipecac. We'll break into the Infirmary tonight and steal a bottle. You drink it, you throw up, you'll spend Parents Day in sick bay, surrounded by nurses."  
  
"That takes care of Parents Day, but god, Chandler, what about the rest of my life?"  
  
"Are you still thinking about running away?"   
  
"Want to come live in a box with me?"  
  
Chandler laughed ruefully. "Um, thanks, but no. Anyway, in two weeks I'll be back at boarding school, so..." he trailed off.  
  
"So... what?"  
  
"So I just had an idea. For both of us."  
  
***  
  
"Darling!" Nora Bing cried in delight, air-kissing him, "You look wonderful!"  
  
"Thanks, mom," Chandler said wholesomely, pulling at the collar of his borrowed Lacoste shirt.  
  
"I was so surprised when you called, darling. I don't think you've invited me to a parent's day since birth."  
  
"Well, this is kinda special. I was going to be playing a song with my friend Phoebe. She's the one who cut my hair."  
  
"It looks so much better," Nora smiled. "You know, I'd almost forgotten how pretty your eyes are."  
  
"You know, Mom," Chandler gushed, pulling her towards a picnic table, "I really want to thank you for sending me here. I feel like I've *really* grown as a person."  
  
"Wow," Nora said. "I thought you hated it here, darling."  
  
"I just didn't *get* it before," Chandler soothed. "I guess I just... wasn't *mature* enough."  
  
"Well... dear... that's..."  
  
"But I also wanted to talk to you," Chandler interrupted. "I've been doing a lot of thinking. About college."  
  
"College? But darling, that's not for a while yet..."  
  
"I know. But I was thinking, you see, about how so many kids get to college and crash and burn, you know? They go from a totally controlled environment to a totally uncontrolled one, and bam -- they're drinking, using drugs, having unprotected sex..."  
  
"Where are you going with this?"  
  
"I was thinking it might be good for me to sort of... transition, you know? Instead of being plunged from one environment to another, I'd be able to sort of try on freedom, within safe parameters."  
  
"Environment? Parameters? What have you done with my child?"  
  
"Here's my proposal," Chandler continued. "What if, instead of living in the dorms next year, you rented me an apartment off campus?"  
  
"An apartment...? I don't know..."  
  
"Just think about it. I know what a huge hassle it is for you to try and deal with me in the summers when school is closed... this way, you wouldn't have to. I could just stay up there. I could learn about responsibility and still have a safety net."  
  
"What about visiting your father, darling?"  
  
"I could still visit him. Just not for as long. I don't think it's a very wholesome environment for me, Mom."  
  
"That's probably true..."  
  
"For that matter, neither are the dorms, really. Those guys are up all night, playing loud music, partying... it's just not very conducive to studying."  
  
"Conducive?"  
  
"I could learn about so many things. Paying bills. Cooking for myself. Being responsible. I think it would be a really great, really enriching experience."  
  
"But darling, you'd have to find an apartment..."  
  
"That wouldn't be a problem! I could drive up to school after camp, stay in a hotel, look for a place. It would be another great experience-builder."  
  
"I don't know, darling..."  
  
"I've really learned a lot about myself this month, Mom. And I've learned a lot about parent/child relationships. If you want me to be responsible, Mom, you're going to have to trust me first. I can't fly if you don't let me out of the nest."  
  
He grinned his best Osmond grin. "We could start it off as a trial. One semester. If my grades don't improve, you can put me back in the dorms."  
  
"That's... very reasonable... I guess..."  
  
"I've really matured here. I've made friends, raised my self-esteem, stopped dressing like a pallbearer. Give me a chance to show you how far I've come. Please, Mom."  
  
She sighed. "Fine. But it's a trial. One semester."  
  
"I won't let you down, Mom," he grinned, kissing her cheek.  
  
Nora rubbed her cheek in amazement. "I'll transfer the money into your account when I get home. I still can't believe I'm agreeing to this."  
  
"You won't regret it for a second. C'mon, I'll walk you over to the campfire."  
  
***  
  
Chandler slipped into Sick Bay, guitar case in hand. He crossed to Phoebe's bed and sat down on the edge.  
  
"How'd it go?" she hissed.  
  
"Perfection," he whispered back.  
  
"Wow," she laughed. "I have a sugar daddy. I always wanted one of those. Well, that wasn't Dan."  
  
"Don't worry about anything," Chandler said. "You just puke. I'm taking care of it."  
  
She fingered the collar of his polo shirt and laughed. "Look at you, all yuppie. All you need is a sweatervest."  
  
"I actually have some at home."  
  
"You're like this sexy... miniature... accountant."  
  
"Gotta go play," Chandler said. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"  
  
He waited until the nurse had turned her back, then gave Phoebe a quick kiss, and strode out the door.  
  
--------------------------  
  
To be continued... 


	4. Little Blue Blazers

Short little one, 'cause I have to get up reeeeeeally early.  
  
----------------------  
  
"I... I... I don't know who to kill first," Joey said in horror. His face was white, and he had Hugsy in a death grip. Buried in the Barcolounger, eyes open wide in shock, clutching his bedtime penguin pal, he looked about ten years old.  
  
"It was a long time ago, Joe," Chandler said quietly.  
  
"Does this story get any better?" Joey begged. "Cause if it doesn't, I'm gonna cry. Do you want to see me cry?"  
  
"It gets better," Phoebe said.  
  
"And then it gets worse," Chandler pointed out.  
  
"But then it gets better," Phoebe said soothingly.  
  
"How much worse?" Joey asked.  
  
Chandler and Phoebe looked at each other uneasily.  
  
Phoebe smiled at Joey. "Look, honey, we don't have to tell the rest of the story. We can end with the happy part."  
  
"Yeah," Chandler added. "We moved into this really cute little house, and we both decorated it."  
  
"I grew tomatoes in the back yard," Phoebe added.  
  
"And they were *huge*," Chandler smiled wistfully.  
  
"Chandler paid for me to take my GED, and then I got a job at the Dairy Queen, and a scholarship to massage therapy school."  
  
"You wouldn't believe how popular she was with the guys at my school. Gorgeous *and* a massage therapist...! I had to beat guys away from our door with a stick so I could sleep."  
  
"Well yeah, but I was like, the only girl they ever saw."  
  
Chandler grinned. "You didn't mind."  
  
Phoebe laughed. "Nope. Those cute little blue blazers... yummy!"  
  
Joey smiled a little. "So you two weren't..."  
  
"Oh, no," Phoebe said. "The making out was sort of... y'know... recreational."  
  
"A comfort thing," Chandler added.  
  
"Yeah," Phoebe said. "And to show Chandler he wasn't gay."  
  
"My grades were *fantastic*, my mom was super-thrilled."  
  
"We got a cat."  
  
"The dye in our hair grew out."  
  
"We had the cutest little kitchen, with this teapot that whistled, and we bought all these bookshelves, just lined the den with 'em."  
  
"So yeah," Chandler said, scratching his nose, "That's how the story ended. Me n' Pheebs, playing house, eating enormous tomatoes in our cute little kitchen, reading books, with our cute little cat."  
  
"Your finger," Joey said suddenly, looking at Chandler's scratching hand with dawning realization.  
  
Chandler and Phoebe looked at each other in alarm. Chandler dropped his right hand from his face quickly.  
  
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, your *finger*," Joey repeated.  
  
"Joe, don't go there," Chandler warned.  
  
"There's no way that happened to you in nursery school, dude. You said it at the coffeeshop today -- you need all your fingers to play classical guitar. You had your whole finger back then!"   
  
"Joey..." Phoebe began.  
  
"That's why you quit, isn't it? That's why Ross didn't even know you knew how. Sometime before college, you..." he paused, realizing. "That's a part of the bad part of the story, isn't it."  
  
"Yeah it is, Joe," Chandler sighed.  
  
"Well, ya gotta tell me now. I gotta know. What happened after the cute little house, and the tomatoes, and the cat?"  
  
----------------------  
  
To be continued... 


	5. We're A Happy Family

A/N: Violence, strong language warning.  
  
May 1987  
  
The last notes of Chandler's guitar faded through the auditorium, and Phoebe leapt to her feet, clapping furiously.  
  
Chandler stood up and took a bow, and Phoebe's face burst into a grin. She began to slide past the knees of the other people in her row, clutching the bouquet of flowers she'd bought, and ducked down a side exit, heading for the dressing rooms.  
  
She headed Chandler off as he came out of the wings, still looking a little dazed. He'd been nervous as hell about this recital... he'd thrown up twice beforehand.  
  
"Hey, sexy," she called, throwing her arms around him.  
  
"Hey, you," he grinned back, circling her waist. "Didn't think you'd want to be huggin' up on me... I probably still smell like puke."  
  
"It's okay, I brought stuff to cover the smell." She laughed, pressing the flowers against his chest.  
  
"Hey, good idea." He kissed her cheek. "Thanks for these."  
  
"And ooh, ooh! Sign my program!" Phoebe fished a pen and her "CHANDLER BING: SENIOR RECITAL" program out of her purse and pressed them at Chandler.  
  
"Are you kidding?"  
  
"Hell, no! That baby's gonna be worth something someday!"  
  
"To Phoebe Buffay... my first and best groupie... Chandler Bing," Chandler said as he wrote carefully, balancing the program on his knee.  
  
"So, let's celebrate. What do you want to do?"  
  
"I dunno, I thought maybe we could..."  
  
All the color drained from Chandler's face, and Phoebe whirled. His gaze was fixed on a couple standing in the wings... a tall, beautiful woman and her even taller male companion.  
  
"You were woooonderful, son," the woman trilled, advancing wobbily towards Chandler. "Just woooooonderful."  
  
Chandler's mom? But she'd seen Chandler's mom, at camp, she wasn't so tall, she... oh.  
  
"Hi, Dad," Chandler said miserably, trying not to wince from the whiskey breath.  
  
"Very nice job, Chandler," the man said stiffly. "Excellent playing."  
  
Chandler tried his damndest to shrink into the curtains. "Hi, Philip."  
  
"Where are your manners, son? Introduce us to your friend," Charles demanded.  
  
"Dad... Philip... this is Phoebe."  
  
"I'm his girlfriend," Phoebe said fiercely, threading her arm through Chandler's.  
  
Philip's eyes flashed. "Nice to meet you."  
  
"Nice to meet you," she said primly.  
  
"This calls for a celebration," Charles announced. "We're taking the two of you out. Where's a good place around here?"  
  
"Dad, I... I think we're too young for anywhere you'd want to go."  
  
"Then we'll go to your house," Charles said, swaying a little and catching hold of Philip's arm for support. "Don't you have a house? I thought the bitch told me you had a house. Lead on, MacDuff... we'll follow you."  
  
***  
  
Phoebe stared over at Chandler anxiously as he ground the gears for the third time in a row. His jaw was set, and he was staring out at the road like he wanted to blow it up.  
  
"Chandler... I'm sorry."  
  
"Why are *you* sorry?" he exploded. "I'm sorry you had to meet them. I can't believe he came to my fucking *recital* drunk. Is it too much to fucking ask to get wasted at eight o'clock instead of six?"  
  
He rammed in the clutch, and the engine whined. "Look, Pheebs... I don't want you to have to go through this tonight. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere? I could pick you up once they're gone."  
  
"Are you kidding? I'm not letting you do this alone."  
  
He turned to face her, his face pale and drawn in the light of the dashboard. "Pheebs... you're the best friend I've ever, ever had."  
  
"Well, you're the best friend I've ever had. For a pretentious Goth boy. Y'know."  
  
***  
  
"So then I said, 'Oh, stuff it, Steve, pull the tampon out and live a little'," Charles brayed, gesturing with his glass, sending vodka sloshing across the couch.  
  
"That's a great story, Dad," Chandler winced. Phoebe tightened her grip on his hand.  
  
"So tell me about *you* two," Philip purred, downing the last three inches of his own glass. "You're such an *adorable* couple. However did you two *meet*?"  
  
"At camp," Chandler said through gritted teeth.  
  
"At *camp*!" Philip sang out, refilling his glass with unsteady hands. "Oh, isn't that *sweet*, Charles! At *camp*. Oh, it's just like a *cute* little *movie*."  
  
"That horrible 'sharing and caring' camp for delinquents that the bitch sends you to?" Charles slurred, holding out his glass for Philip to fill.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Phoebe said, catching Philip's eye. "I had to go. I shanked some bitch who touched my boyfriend."  
  
"Sheeeeee's a fiesty one, Chandler!" Philip crowed. "She must be a *tiger* in the sack."  
  
"Well, son," Charles said, getting to his feet with difficulty, "You got somewhere an old broad can pass out?"  
  
Chandler looked at Phoebe, and she nodded. "Sure, Dad. You can sleep in the uh, the guest room."  
  
"Fan-caaay," Charles drawled, swaying towards the door of Phoebe's room. "My *teenager* has a *guest* room. I think my alimony needs to be increased...!"  
  
Phoebe's door shut behind Charles, and Chandler closed his eyes in relief.  
  
"Y'know, Penelope," Philip began, pouring himself yet another refill.  
  
"Phoebe," she replied flatly.  
  
"Phee-bee. Whatever. Chandler wasn't always straight, y'know."  
  
Chandler's eyes opened in horror.  
  
"Actually, sir," Phoebe said. "Chandler's always been straight. Although I heard a rumor that he was once molested by some creepy old bastard."  
  
"Is *that* what you heard." Philip's voice dripped with poison. "What an interesting, *interesting* story."  
  
"Okay," Chandler jumped up from the couch. "This night is fucking over. Philip, go to sleep. Pheebs, go to my room."  
  
"Aww, Chaaaandler... the conversation was just getting *amusing*," Philip sneered. "Or don't you want your girlfriend to know that you're a slutty little tease?"  
  
"Shut up," Chandler cried.  
  
"I don't know what Chandler told you, Penelope," Philip hissed, "But I think you'll like my version of the story better. For one thing, it's true... and I really like the part where Chandler *begs* me to..."  
  
"I said shut up," Chandler trembled with rage. "Shut up."  
  
"Don't you think she ought to know? Don't you think she has a *right* to know?"  
  
"Get out of my fucking house."  
  
"Make me," Philip laughed. "Oh, you can't. 'Cause you're a skinny little guitar-playing rent boy, and you'd get your blazer dirty."  
  
Chandler ran at Philip, pushing him with both hands. Philip swayed but didn't budge, delivering a roundhouse punch to the side of Chandler's head. Chandler fell against the couch, gasping.  
  
"Get away from him," Phoebe demanded, brandishing a kitchen knife. "I know how to use this."  
  
"Oh, nooooo," Philip giggled. "Barbie's got a steak knife!"  
  
"I'm serious," Phoebe said, moving towards Philip as Chandler struggled back to his feet. "Get out right now."  
  
"This should be funny."  
  
Phoebe slashed at Philip. He grabbed her by the wrist and twisted, wrenching her arm upwards. Tears sprang to Phoebe's eyes.  
  
"Get off her... get off her, you bastard," Chandler sobbed, attacking Philip wildly, wrestling the three of them to the ground. The knife fell out of Phoebe's hand, and Chandler grabbed for it... but Philip got there first.  
  
Chandler pushed Phoebe out from underneath him. "Pheebs, run, get someone, run..."  
  
"I can't leave you..." She grabbed the empty vodka bottle off the coffee table.  
  
"Run, dammit! Get the neighbors, get out of here, get..."  
  
Chandler screamed, and Phoebe's eyes flew wide as blood spurted out across the floor. She lurched forward, bringing the bottle down on Philip's head. It cracked beneath the force of the blow, sending glass shards everywhere.  
  
She rolled Philip's limp body off Chandler. "Chandler, oh my god! Are you okay? Are you okay? Where are you bleeding?"  
  
She saw his hand and bit back a scream. "Chandler, I'm calling 911. Hold on."  
  
She ran to the kitchen, slipping in Chandler's blood, finally wrenching the phone off the wall.  
  
"It's 825 Laurel Street... my friend's really messed up... oh god, please hurry."  
  
She sprinted back to Chandler, dropping to her knees in the spreading pool of blood, ripping off the hem of her dress and wrapping it around his hand, putting pressure on it.  
  
"Pheebs... that hurts..."  
  
"I know, Chandler," she sobbed. "But you're losing so much blood..."  
  
"Can you... do you see the rest of it?" he said weakly.  
  
"I'll look. Keep holding this, okay?" She gently placed his other hand on the makeshift bandage, trying not to gag as her hands searched across the bloody floor, trying to find Chandler's fingertip.  
  
Sirens in the distance.  
  
"Pheebs... you've got to go now."  
  
"I'm not leaving you!"  
  
"You can't be here. You've got a record. You ran away from foster care. They'll put you in Juvenile."  
  
"I'm not leaving you."  
  
"Don't go far. Walk to the dorms. Stay with Steven tonight. I'll come get you."  
  
"Chandler..."  
  
"I'll come find you, okay? But you've gotta go now."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Pheebs, dammit, go... they're getting closer. Don't make it worse."  
  
"Chandler..."  
  
"Go!"  
  
Phoebe ran for the door, and Chandler let the darkness take him.  
  
***  
  
"This is all your fucking fault! All your fucking fault! How could you let this happen to our son?"  
  
"Dammit, Nora, I didn't know. And you didn't either, so don't act all Mary Mother of the Year with me."  
  
"His hand, Charles. His goddamned *hand*. Do you know how many years, how many years he's spent on guitar? It's his *dream*, Charles. You took his fucking *dream*."  
  
"Do you think I don't hate myself right now? Because I do. You don't know how much."  
  
Chandler pried his eyes open and immediately regretted it. The pain in his hand was excruciating.  
  
"Nora, shut up -- he's awake."  
  
His parents rushed to his bed, looming over him.  
  
It was the first time in years he'd seen either of them without makeup.  
  
"Chandler? Honey?" Nora held his good hand to her chest. "Say something, baby."  
  
"Where's Phoebe?"  
  
"Who's Phoebe?"  
  
"That's his girlfriend," Charles said.  
  
"I don't know, baby. We haven't seen her."  
  
"How long -- how long have I been out?"  
  
"About a week, sweetie. They had you on really strong painkillers."  
  
"A week? I have to go to the house."  
  
"No-no, honey," Nora said, moving his hair away from his forehead. "I got you out of your lease, I've already shipped your stuff home. You're coming home with me. I canceled my book tour, I'm gonna take care of you."  
  
"You canceled my lease?" Chandler said in horror.  
  
"We got everything out as soon as the police were done. I want you home with me. Things are going to be different, baby."  
  
"Oh, god... Pheebs..."  
  
"You can write her when you get home, baby. I'm sure the two of you can visit."  
  
"She doesn't have an *address*," Chandler moaned. "She doesn't have anything she *owns*. She doesn't even have her *wallet*."  
  
Charles and Nora shot each other an uneasy look.  
  
"Honey, I think you're a little delusional... maybe you should go back to sleep."  
  
"No sleep. Gotta find Phoebe..."  
  
Nora nodded towards Charles, and he pressed the button on Chandler's morphine drip.  
  
"I told her I'd find her," Chandler mumbled, sinking back into his pillow.  
  
***  
  
Chandler looked out the window of the limousine, watching skyscrapers roll by.  
  
"Darling, I just don't... I just don't understand."  
  
"It's what I want, Mom."  
  
"But baby... you got into *Yale*. You got into *Princeton*. Why, why in the world would you want to go to NYU?"  
  
"It's what I want, Mom."  
  
***  
  
Ross Geller watched in shock as his new roommate tucked a five-dollar bill into a styrofoam cup, leaning down to have a short conversation with the man holding it.  
  
"Dude," he said as the headed down the street. "Don't *do* that. It just encourages them. I thought you were *from* New York."  
  
"I am," Chandler said simply, tucking his hands into his trenchcoat pockets.  
  
Ross shook his head. This guy was intense. "You don't *act* like it. Giving money to bums, going on walks in the middle of the night in shitty neighborhoods... do you have some kind of death wish?"  
  
"I like to walk." Chandler turned up his coat collar against the wind.  
  
"So walk in the *park*."  
  
"I already looked in the park." Chandler pushed the door open, setting the little bell jingling.  
  
"You're seriously weird. You know that, right?"  
  
Chandler didn't answer. He was staring in awe at a waitress, moving in between the tables, her long ponytail hanging behind her.  
  
"Pheebs," he called. "Pheebs?"  
  
The girl didn't turn around. Ross looked on in confusion as Chandler jogged up to the waitress and caught her by the arm. "Phoebe."  
  
"Nope, sorry," the girl snapped, shrugging Chandler's hand off.  
  
"Pheebs... it's me. Chandler."  
  
"I'm sorry, Chancey, but you have the wrong person. Buzz off, I've got tables."  
  
"Phoebe, what... what are you doing?"  
  
"Look, buddy, you've got the wrong girl. My name is Ursula."  
  
"Oh my god," Chandler said. "Phoebe's twin?"  
  
"Look, who are you?"  
  
"I'm a friend of Phoebe's. I've been trying to find her forever."  
  
"Well, good luck, 'cause she's dead."  
  
"She's dead?"  
  
"Or something. Excuse me." she brushed past him.  
  
"Ursula, Ursula, wait. What do you mean, she's dead?"  
  
"Dead. You know, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, pushing up daisies?"  
  
"When's the last time you saw her?"  
  
"Uh, I dunno, I guess I was twelve? It was right before I went to live with my grandma."  
  
"Whoa. You have a grandmother? Here, in the city?"  
  
"Yeah, so?"  
  
"Your sister spent years living in a box, and you had a grandmother living in the city?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Ursula sighed. "Well, that would kinda be my fault. Oops!"  
  
"How, exactly," Chandler growled, "Would that be your fault?"  
  
"Well, you know, it was so chaotic when Mom bit it. And Phoebe was really getting on my nerves, you know?"  
  
"Don't." Chandler held up a hand. "Just... don't."  
  
He walked across the restaurant and grabbed Ross' arm, hauling him outside.  
  
"Dude... what was that about? We didn't eat!"  
  
"We'll eat somewhere else," Chandler said through gritted teeth.  
  
"What was wrong with that place?"  
  
"If I'd stayed there one minute longer, you would have watched me kill a woman."  
  
"You... you have *serious* issues, dude."  
  
"You don't know the half of it. C'mon, there's a deli up the street." 


	6. Emotional Knapsack

October 1987  
  
"Chandler, you *really* need to start thinking about a major," his advisor said kindly. "Isn't there *anything* you're interested in?"  
  
Sure. Finding Phoebe. Regenerating limbs. He had lots of interests.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, it's just... I'd always planned on majoring in Music Performance, and I'm having a hard time finding something else."  
  
"Ah... yes," his advisor said carefully. "I've, uh, read your file." He cleared his throat nervously. "Your test scores show that you were really excellent in math... have you thought about accounting, or data processing?"  
  
"Crunching numbers all day?" Chandler laughed. "I'd chew my own leg off."  
  
"Well, your scores are extraordinary... and I see you kept straight A's in your Calculus classes. It's something to think about. Why don't I just pencil that in for you? We can always change it later."  
  
A girl walked by the window, schoolbooks in hand, blonde hair blowing out behind her, peasant skirt rippling in the wind.  
  
Chandler sighed. "Whatever."  
  
***  
  
"Package came for you," Ross called, looking up from his Botany book as Chandler strode into the room. "I put it on your bed."  
  
"Thanks, man." Chandler put his foot up on his mattress, sliding his knife out of his boot and slicing the box open neatly. Ross' eyes were huge.  
  
"Dude. Dude! Why do you have that... *machete* in your shoe?"  
  
"It's not a machete," Chandler said, sliding it back into its holster and setting his foot back on the floor.  
  
"Okay, I don't *care* what kind of knife it is... why do you have it?"  
  
"It's for my walks," Chandler shrugged.  
  
"God, you're a *freak*," Ross muttered, licking his finger and turning a page.  
  
"What? I couldn't hear you over the *air purifier*," Chandler said pointedly.  
  
"I said, 'What's in the box?'"  
  
"Oh." Chandler sat down on the bed, pulling the box onto his lap and opening the flaps. "Jesus. She *never* gives up." He pulled out a Yale sweatshirt, displaying it for Ross. "You want this one, too?"  
  
"What size is it?"  
  
Chandler peeked at the label. "3X. She must have sent Consuela shopping again."  
  
"3X? Yeah, throw it over, I'll give it to my little sister."  
  
Chandler launched the sweatshirt at Ross' head, peering into the box.  
  
"Any food in there, man?"  
  
"Um, no... she sent me a copy of her latest book, I'm sure I'll enjoy *that* very un-much." Chandler wiggled a paperback with two semi-clad people on the front. "Think your little sister would want this, too?"  
  
"Nah, but Rachel might. She loves your mom's books."  
  
"And you're obsessed with this chick... why?"  
  
Ross' eyes grew distant and dreamy. "Because she..."  
  
"No-no, it was a quip, not a question!"  
  
"Sorry," Ross huffed, going back to his book.  
  
Chandler held the box up to the light, reaching in his hand for the last object inside. He pulled it out, his whole face falling.  
  
"What's that?" Ross asked.  
  
"A package of finger picks."  
  
"A *what*?"  
  
Chandler hefted the plastic package in his hand, staring at it. "Finger picks."  
  
"Why would your mom send you those?"  
  
Chandler didn't answer. Ross searched his face. "Dude! Do you play *guitar*?"  
  
"I..." Chandler sighed. "I used to." He shoved the picks in his shirt pocket, standing up. "Here's that book for Rachel."  
  
But Ross' eyes were already alight. "We should start a band, man! *I* play keyboards!"  
  
"Really," Chandler said. He had a severely difficult time imagining that.  
  
"Do you have a guitar? We should totally work something out! I've been coming up with this song, right? It's called 'Emotional Knapsack'. I'll call home, get Mom to mail my keyboards! This is gonna be awesome!"  
  
"Ross..."  
  
"Aw, Chandler, c'mon!"  
  
"I'll... I'll think about it, okay? Lemme... lemme check some things."  
  
***  
  
Chandler let himself into the private practice room, closing and locking the door behind him, setting his guitar case gently down on the ground.  
  
He pulled open the latches, pulling out the beautiful instrument, running his hands over it. Such a beautiful guitar, such beautiful wood, like an old friend...  
  
The strings had rusted.   
  
Chandler restrung and tuned, his heart beating wildly. He pulled open the bag of finger picks, sliding one onto his middle finger, wincing at the pain as the tight metal pressed into still-tender flesh.  
  
He flexed his hand, noting with a sinking heart how much slower that finger moved than the others. It had healed well, but there'd been nerve damage; a few weeks ago, Chandler had gotten distracted and let his cigarette burn down to the filter, not noticing he was burning himself until he smelled cooking meat. The blister had *just* healed.  
  
He picked the guitar up, propping his foot up on his case, bending over the neck.  
  
He wrung out scales, clumsily, his middle finger skipping off, unable to keep up, getting in the way. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he tried harder, his uncalloused fingertips aching, new strings cutting into his flesh, tears in his eyes, biting his lip against the pain.   
  
"Come on, come *on*," he whispered. A thin line of blood snaked out from his left hand, curling itself around his finger, disappearing beneath his shirt cuff. Chandler never noticed.  
  
He moved on into a song, an old and easy one, one of the first he'd learned... the kind he could play in his sleep. The finger pick sliced through his deadened skin, more blood sprinkling on the inlaid wood of his instrument, dark red lines blurring from the sweat and tears dripping off his face.  
  
Crap, it sounded like crap, hideous horrible crap, he'd played better than this at eight... his unresponsive finger muting strings, knocking other fingers, always a few seconds late to wherever he needed it to be. Dissonant minor chords filled the room, noise not music.  
  
And finally, the fingerpick reached a nerve. Chandler's hand leapt off the strings, flying in front of his face. Blood soaked his wrists, his cuffs, his forearms.  
  
Chandler screamed in rage, pain, and frustration, hurling the guitar against the wall. It wrung out a final chord and cracked, landing on the carpet, slack strings still ringing.  
  
"Oh god... oh god," Chandler whispered, running to the wall, dropping to his knees in front of the guitar, reaching out for it with bloody hands, red handprints smearing the wood. He examined the crack, running his fingers over it.  
  
The guitar was ruined.  
  
***  
  
Chandler walked through the mist of rain, eyes flicking from side to side, scanning doorways and alleyways. The key to this was looking like you knew where you were going, that you had a destination and a purpose.  
  
He at least had a purpose.  
  
He rounded a corner, smirking to himself at a burst of music from a nearby ghetto blaster. The Ramones... and just his *favorite* song by them, too.  
  
We're a happy family  
  
We're a happy family  
  
We're a happy family  
  
Me and Mom and Daddy  
  
He leaned against the brick, taking shelter under an overhang, lighting a cigarette, cupping his hands against the wind and water.  
  
We ain't got no friends  
  
Our troubles never end  
  
No Christmas cards to send  
  
Daddy likes men...   
  
"Well *that* sure takes my mind off the upcoming holiday," Chandler muttered to himself, pushing off the wall and resuming his walk.  
  
Ross had invited him to Thanksgiving at his house this year, and Chandler was seriously thinking about it. His mom was still crushed at his college choice... she'd sent him yet *another* Yale sweatshirt last week, and his Dad... well.  
  
His Dad could barely look at him, and was drinking more than ever.  
  
He sprinted across Frederick Douglass Circle and headed into the Park. There was music up ahead, and a light; a small fire was burning underneath the 110th Street Arch, people taking shelter from the rain inside it.  
  
Chandler headed towards them, gearing himself up for his standard speech, hand going to his pocket for the worn and crumpled photo of Phoebe that always accompanied him.  
  
"Hi," he said, sliding under the arch, trailing his hand along the wet stone.  
  
"Hey," a woman replied, warming her hands over the fire. "Cold night."  
  
"Yeah." He turned and faced the small man playing guitar. "You're really good."  
  
The man ignored him, continuing to play. Chandler looked up at the woman.  
  
"Don't mind Brian," she smiled. "He don't talk. Thinks he's an antelope."  
  
Chandler smiled, leaning against the stone, working up to his speech.  
  
And -- click.  
  
"He thinks he's an antelope?" Chandler said hurriedly.  
  
"Yeah, it's the damndest thing."  
  
Chandler squatted in front of the man. "Hey."  
  
No answer.  
  
"That chord -- is that Turkey Leg, or Bear Claw?"  
  
The man looked up in shock. "It's 'Old Lady', boy, don't you know nothin'?"  
  
Tears sprang to Chandler's eyes. He scrabbled in his pocket for the photo. "I'm looking for this girl. You taught her guitar a long time ago. Have you seen her?"  
  
The man continued to play, and Chandler shook the photo under his nose. "Please. *Please*. You don't know how important this is!"  
  
"Let me see it, honey," the woman said. Chandler slid the photo into her hand. "Why bless my soul, Brian -- that's Regina!"  
  
"Regina... *Philange*?" Chandler said hopefully.  
  
"She don't usually look *this* good," the woman said, handing the photo back.  
  
"Do you know where she is? Please, please know where she is."  
  
"I saw her walkin' up here... she's down at Bethesda."  
  
"Thank you," Chandler cried. "Thank you, thank you so much..."  
  
And he took off, sprinting through the mist, heading south.  
  
"That boy's crazy," the woman remarked.  
  
***  
  
Chandler's lungs burned as he ran, puddles splashing beneath his feet, ducking under archways, passing gardens and castles, late-night couples turning to stare as he sprinted by them, a stitch building up in his side. He reached the red tiles of the Terrace and slipped, shoes giving out beneath him, falling forward, catching himself with his hands.  
  
He looked up and saw her.  
  
She sat on the side of the fountain, guitar on her knee, open case at her feet. Chandler stood up and walked towards her, hands fumbling in his pockets.  
  
***  
  
Phoebe leaned over her guitar, keeping her head down, keeping the sprinkles out of her face. If it started raining any harder, she'd have to pack up for the evening.  
  
"Smelly cat..." she sang, "Smel-l-ly cat... what, are they feeding you?"  
  
A white card fluttered into her case, pale against the red interior.  
  
"Oooh, an *index* card!" Phoebe snapped. "Thanks, big spender!"  
  
"Hi, Pheebs."  
  
Phoebe's head snapped up, her hand strumming a last, lingering chord. "Chandler?"  
  
She threw the guitar down, leaping into his arms. He swung her around, laughing. She stank like holy hell, but he didn't care.  
  
"Chandler, oh my god! What are you doing here?"  
  
"Looking for you."  
  
"What... what'd you throw into my case?"  
  
"Your grandmother's address."  
  
Phoebe blinked. "My grandmother's *dead*."  
  
"No, she's not... but she thought *you* were. I went and talked to her, Pheebs, look... she's desperate to see you."  
  
"Chandler, Chandler... oh my god..."  
  
"Here," he said, pulling things out of his pockets. "These are yours... here's your wallet..." He pressed it into her hand, along with a small cloth bag, "Here are all your rings... I already took your big stuff to your Grandma's, just in case."  
  
Phoebe stood, staring at the items she held. "How long... how long have you been looking for me?"  
  
"Since I woke up," Chandler said honestly, running his fingers through his drenched hair.  
  
"Oh my god," Phoebe whispered, flinging her arms around him.  
  
***  
  
"Hello, room service? This is room 403. You guys have a vegetarian menu, right?" He nodded into the earpiece. "Good. We'd like to order everything on it." Chandler stifled a grin. "Yup. Everything."  
  
He hung up, poking his head in the bathroom door. "Pheebs? I'm gonna run down to the machine, get us some sodas. You want anything in particular?"  
  
"To never get out of this bathtub, ever again?"  
  
She'd poured every bottle of bubblebath into the huge tub, and had a blissed-out look on her face. Chandler couldn't help grinning.  
  
***  
  
"Oh my god," Phoebe groaned happily, mouth full of falafel. "Oh my god, Chandler." She swallowed, immediately replacing the falafel with a mouthful of potatoes. "Bumming a cigarette from you was the best thing I *ever* did."  
  
She popped the top on her fifth Pepsi. "I could die, right now."  
  
Chandler laughed, taking her empty plate and setting it on top of the stack. "Okay, that's it... you want me to call them back, get some more?"  
  
"Oh god no," Phoebe grinned, rubbing her swollen stomach through her bathrobe. "In twenty minutes, I'm gonna hate myself."  
  
She set her Pepsi aside, stretching out on the bed. "God. Sheets. I love *sheets*. I love *mattresses*."  
  
She flopped down, wet hair streaming across the bed. "I love *pillows*."  
  
She smiled up at the ceiling, letting her arms splay across the bed. "I'm full... I'm clean... I'm warm... I'm on a *bed*, and I'm with *you*."  
  
"And hey... TV!" Chandler wiggled the remote in front of her face.  
  
Phoebe pulled the remote from his hand, throwing it across the room. "You know? I don't think I've ever felt this awesome in my life, ever. So I probably shouldn't push my luck, but..."  
  
Chandler plopped down next to her, cuddling a pillow. "But... what?"  
  
"You know that thing, that thing neither one of us have ever done?"  
  
Chandler's eyes flew wide.  
  
"Yeah, let's... let's do that."  
  
"Pheebs. Are you... are you serious?"  
  
Phoebe grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.  
  
***  
  
"Where, where, where have you been?" Ross screeched, leaping up from his bunk. "I have been worried *sick* about you! You cut every class today!"  
  
"I took a friend to see her Grandma," Chandler shrugged. He pulled the knife out of his boot and stuck it in his desk drawer.  
  
"Uh... whaddya doin with that?"  
  
"Don't need it anymore."  
  
"What happened to your hair?"  
  
"I let her cut it." Chandler smiled, touching the bizarre mess on top of his head. "With a razor."  
  
"What are you... you don't smile! You've always got that gloomy Bob Dylan in the rain thing goin' on, and now you're... you're grinning!"  
  
Ross sucked in air. "*You* got *laid*."  
  
"Maybe," Chandler teased, flopping onto his bed.  
  
"Oh my god! I can't *believe* you got laid before I did!"  
  
"Calm down, Ross. What about that Carol girl? I thought you liked her."  
  
"Yeah, but Rachel... I'm thinkin' maybe at Thanksgiving..."  
  
"Hey Ross?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"That band...? I'll do it."  
  
"You will? Seriously?"  
  
Chandler hugged his pillow, unable to stop the smile spreading over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I will." 


	7. Sexy Smurf

A/N: Short little chapter, 'cause I can't really go much further without a decision... and I'm waiting on the Mandate Of The People.  
  
I was surprised to find that people wanted Phoebe and Chandler to get back together in the 'present' (Season Three) of the fic. It wasn't what I'd planned, but I'd be glad to do it. If you care either way, pro-or-anti P/C in the present, leave a comment.   
  
-------------------  
  
November, 1988  
  
"Hey, Chandler, is that a 'Playboy'?" Carol asked, lounging across his bunk and examining underneath.  
  
"Yes, but I *only* jerk off to the articles."  
  
"Dude!" Ross cried in disgust, hitting Chandler in the shoulderpad. "That's my *girlfriend*, tone it down!"  
  
Carol laughed, pulling the magazine out from beneath Chandler's guitar case. "Lighten up, sweetie... it was funny." She cracked the magazine, whistling appreciatively. "Ohhhhh man... Pia Reyes! Ross, c'mere, this chick is stupid hot."  
  
"Sorry, sweetie, we've gotta head here in a minute." Ross adjusted his bright blue suit and chartreuse t-shirt, running a hand over his carefully maintained stubble. "How do I look?"  
  
"Aww, you look just like Sexy Smurf," Carol laughed, pulling him down to the bunk for a kiss. "You look nice too, Chandler."  
  
"You don't think I look like a peppermint?" he worried into the mirror.  
  
"Well yeah, but in a good way." Carol grinned, throwing her beer can into the trash. "I'm sure if your... *secret girlfriend* could see you, she'd think you were real hot stuff."  
  
Chandler whirled, glaring at Ross. "I do *not* have a *girlfriend*."  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Ross laughed. "I'm sure if your secret, 'girl you sleep with and spend all your time with yet won't admit you're dating' could see you..."  
  
"Hey, look... if it were up to me, we *would* be dating," Chandler said, plucking at the lapel of his white suit. "But thanks for rubbing it in, man."  
  
"So, wait," Carol said, crawling into Ross' lap and slinging an arm around his neck, "You're sleeping together... you see each other all the time... but she won't date you?"  
  
Chandler turned from the mirror with a sigh. "She says if we're not dating, we can't break up, and she can never lose me. She's got some... understandable issues about losing people."  
  
"That's what he needs, too, a girl with more issues than him," Ross played with Carol's hair. "You shoulda seen the death wish this guy used to have. Y'know he used to go on midnight walks through the Park with a machete in his boot? And wouldn't *ever* tell me why?"  
  
"Ooooh," Carol teased. "Sounds like Mr. Comedian's got a dark, mysterious side...!"  
  
She bounced off Ross' lap, giving him a goodbye kiss and patting Chandler's chest on her way out the door. "Don't worry, Chandler. In the hot pink shirt, no one will guess."  
  
***  
  
Phoebe hit the hospital doors in a hurricane of blonde ringlets and hippie skirt, pelting down the hallways, zig-zagging around pedestrians.  
  
410... 412... 414...  
  
She slammed the door open, chest heaving. Chandler was asleep in the small white bed, curled up against a pillow.  
  
"Who was she?" Phoebe demanded.  
  
His eyes fluttered open, and he reached for her. "Hey, Pheebs."  
  
"Don't 'Hey Pheebs' me, buster. Who is she?"  
  
"Who's who?" Chandler murmured groggily.  
  
"The bitch who cut off your toe! Gimme a name, I'm gonna kill her."  
  
Chandler reached out, took her hand in his. "Don't worry about it, Pheebs."  
  
"Don't... don't *worry* about it?" Phoebe sputtered. "Um, hello? People keep cutting parts of you *off*! You're gonna be the Tin Man if I don't do something!"  
  
Chandler laughed. "It was an accident, okay? She dropped a knife, it went through my shoe."  
  
"An accident," Phoebe repeated darkly, crossing her arms. "Sure."  
  
"She's not like that," Chandler murmured. "You don't know her, Pheebs, she's so... sweet... and naive... she wouldn't do that."  
  
Phoebe's eyes narrowed. "'Sweet' and 'naive', huh? She must be mega-hot."  
  
"Oh, trust me... she is," Chandler laughed, falling back into his pillow.  
  
Pheebs felt a lump in her throat and forced it down. "So who was she?"  
  
"Ross' little sister," Chandler sighed dreamily.  
  
"Ross' little sister... the whale?" Phoebe said dubiously.  
  
"Hey, don't talk about her like that! She's lost a *lot* of weight!"  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, Chandler Bing," Phoebe spat. "The Shallowest Man Alive."  
  
"Hey, I always thought she was nice! I just wasn't attracted to her before!"  
  
"Uh-huh," Phoebe glared. "Yeah, *that's* what you kept talking about when you got back last year. How *nice* she was, sure."  
  
"I may have been... a little derogatory..."  
  
"Oh *please*, Chandler! Now you're the Biggest Hypocrite Alive!"  
  
"What do you care?" Chandler huffed. "You're the one who keeps saying we're not dating. So what if I think Ross' little sister is cute?"  
  
"You don't think she's 'cute', Chandler... you're all," Phoebe put both hands to the side of her head and sighed deeply, doing her 'lovesick Chandler' impression, "Ohhhhh... ex-whale-girl... ohhhhh!"  
  
"Her *name* is *Monica*."  
  
"Oooh sorry! Ohhhhhhh Moooooniiiicaaaa, then!"  
  
"Did you come here to cheer me up? Because you're doing a shitty job."  
  
"Look, Chandler. I think it's time we stopped sleeping together."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, if you're 'branching out', I don't wanna get some *disease*."  
  
"I didn't sleep with her! I talked to her for five minutes, and then she *cut off* my *toe*!"  
  
"Whatever. That's not the point."  
  
"You don't *have* a point!"  
  
"Bite me, Bing," Phoebe spat. "I have to get the cab back."  
  
"Pheebs, wait... Pheebs, don't go, please..."  
  
"Seeya around," Phoebe called, slamming the hospital door open.  
  
"Pheebs..."  
  
Phoebe ran down the hospital corridor as quickly as she'd run in, hurling herself around corners and through doorways. She reached the cab, threw herself inside, and stared blankly at the steering wheel...  
  
Before putting her head down on it and sobbing. 


End file.
